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“The bank has been robbed,” Ozzie joyfully muttered over and over as he left the bank. Finally outside he couldn’t contain his happiness anymore. He went leaping like he had experienced a profound miracle. And off he went, broadcasting the triumph of justice over greed straight into the path of a speeding Bus 242. And even as he breathed his last, a rapturous expression rested on his face.
“The fucking bank has been robbed,” he silently shouted.
“Who said that?” asked the supervisor who again returned to the banking hall this time in the company of the three unsmiling police.
“I did” Frank volunteered.
“Can you step this way for a minute please?” one of the policemen beckoned with his head. Frank found himself hustled into the supervisor’s office.
“How much do you know about this?” he was asked “Nothing more than I saw with my eyes while standing to cash my check,” Frank told them.
“You don’t know any of those men from BBC?”
“Of course not; any fool could have seen that heist coming” Frank chuckled.
The supervisor glared; he clearly didn’t like being called any fool. But in any case, he knew that in a matter of hours he was likely to be without a job and quite likely to need a lawyer to save his behind from prison. His wife and children were going to be angry with him for a long time. They finally let Frank go after taking his identification.
. Outside Frank found the building cordoned off behind police tape. The bank was now a crime scene. A large crowd had gathered to learn what had happened. Mrs. William was there right before them all; basking in the spotlight as a witness to the crime. A smaller and now dispersing crowd had gathered to see the remains of Ozzie being taken away by an ambulance.
Frank usually went to the Hard Luck Café on Lower Clapton Road to catch up on the latest news and stuff. Usually never before sundown, but today he needed somewhere to go, was short of ideas, so he ended up at the Hard Luck Café for an early lunch.
“What is the matter Frank, you’re not at work?” Lester Bowie asked. Lester was the waiter at the Hard Luck Café – once a temporary draft from the Dinosaurs Over-50s Employment Network. Lester always kept the customers irritated or amused but never alone, so Maureen Smith the owner of the café had retained him now for more than two years. At fifty-two Lester still didn’t really know what his life was about and appeared not to care anymore.
“None of your businesses, Frank told him.
“Well, since when have you ever come into here at a quarter past noon to order Bubble and Squeak and a Guinness? So I say what ales you” Lester chuckled, putting a pun on the “ale.”
“Fuck off and do your job Lester,” Frank told him.
He had picked up a copy of the Sun at a newsstand near Hackney Central, and he dived lustfully into the page three half taken up by a topless model.
“Nekkid girl, what she selling den,” Maureen laughed behind him.
“Hi Maureen,” Frank flashed her smile. Maureen was the owner of Hard Luck Cafe, forty-something full-breasted beauty with a motherly smile. Maureen always minded her business and didn’t hassle you with questions. Lester came back with Frank’s food at last and set it on the table with a wink.
“Dirty newspaper pictures make you go blind you know?” he said.
“Fuck off,” Frank waved him away, and silently ate his food while reading the paper.
Become a Private Investigator.
Somewhere in the last pages of the paper Frank again saw a small advertisement that he had noticed the previous day. It was about a private detective course or something like that. There was a phone number at the bottom of the advertisement, and having nothing else to do after his meal, he called the number.
The call was taken by a giggly girl who answered, “Hi my name is Mandy, and how may I help you?” .Frank extracted the address of Eagle Detective Training Institute from Mandy. It was somewhere near Elephant and Castle, and since it was the right day for time-wasting, Frank thought why not check it out.
While making the call to Eagle Detective Institute, Frank found that he had a missed call, and so he called his voicemail. Nancy had left another message.
Nancy. He hadn’t seen her in years and wondered what it was she wanted. Frank and Nancy had together kept a single-bedroom apartment together for almost a year. It had been so wonderful initially, two kids just having fun in all possible ways. Then Nancy had started to want more, hinting at marriage. For a guy without a steady job getting hitched wasn’t a thought that Frank thought he wanted to mess with, so he had persistently navigated away off the topic as well as he could.
But Nancy had also remained persistent, and it soon became that the only way to avoid talking about getting married was to avoid speaking with Nancy and eventually to avoid seeing Nancy, which was pretty difficult, for two people living together in a single bedroom flat.
Then Thomas had appeared on the scene. Frank had initially become sure that Nancy was seeing someone else. How else to explain that some weirdo kept sending in flowers every day
“Hey, what’s with all these flowers; the flat’s like a fucking undertaker’s,” Frank complained to Nancy.
“None of your business,” she had tersely replied; which was partly correct because even though they shared the rent, the lease of the flat was in her name. And even though Frank was relieved that Nancy was no more discussing marriage, the flowers still kept him freaked; like they forebode someone’s funeral.
Frank came in one night to hear moaning noises from the room which he used to share with Nancy before the living room couch became more comfortable for him.
The bedroom door was open, and on the bed, he found Nancy with one of his friends, Thomas Pawney; both of them naked. Angry from both the effrontery and the betrayals, Frank hauled Thomas naked out of the flat. Nancy had also done the expected and thrown Frank’s stuff out of her flat that very night.
Looking back, Frank thought that was the best thing that happened to him and Nancy. He remembered sleeping on the buses that night. Well, there wasn’t really much sleep. He just got himself on whichever bus was going the furthest distance and tried to get some sleep during the journeys. And at the terminus, he changed into another going the other way and got a bit more sleep on the way. That was how that night had passed.
Jay Winch had been a lucky find the next day. Jay, a software guy, was going off to do some better-paying gig in Chicago or wherever and needed someone to mind his flat for a couple of years. So with no reference and without a deposit, Frank had quite impossibly found himself the proud tenant of a two-bedroom flat in Hackney. The next day he called Nancy and quite maliciously told her how much he wished her and Thomas Pawney a miserable lifetime and a house full of retarded children together.
But somehow and quite impossibly Nancy Hughes had shown up at a rave party at Dalston a few weeks back, without her Thomas Pawney. Nancy had come along with two plump Scottish girls on a suicide mission from Glasgow, and who had spent the entire night knocking down Vodka shots, and the rest of the early morning vomiting them up on the sidewalk.
“What happened to Thomas Pawney?” Frank found a minute to ask Nancy during the night.
“Not my type, he wanted to marry me,” Nancy told Frank; leaving him with the conviction that most women are mad?
“Thought that was what you wanted,” Frank reminded her.
“Yes with you maybe; not with Thomas Pawney. I don’t love him”, she ruefully smiled. Being afraid of what was coming up Frank took off but not quickly enough to prevent Nancy from getting his phone number. He now ruefully regretted he had not given her a wrong number.
And so, there on my phone was Nancy for the umpteenth time in a month asking him to return her call.
Lester was watching the television with Maureen since no other customer was yet about. They were watching a football match between Liverpool FC and Arsenal. Lester normally looked to Frank as a hopeless case in his plaid apron, but today Lester really did strike him differently and invoked respect. At least Lester had a job going for him.
“You done guv?” Lester asked. Frank gave him the OK sign, took out the money from his wallet, and bailed himself from the Hard Luck Cafe.
CHAPTER 4
Frank found Eagle Detective Training Institute on the second floor of the mall at Elephant and Castle. It was a sparsely furnished small office, with only one desk, behind which he found Mandy seated, quite engrossed with her OK magazine. An ornately framed black and white portrait of a distinguished-looking gentleman with handlebar mustache supervised his discussion with the giggly Mandy, who was the o.
“I called you about one hour ago about the detective course,” Frank explained to her.
“Yes, you did. It is, of course, a home study course, and it normally costs four hundred pounds, but you can buy for only two hundred and forty-nine pounds and ninety-nine pence at the discount price if you buy today. “, Mandy went straight to business.
“That’s a lot of money, is there an installment payment option?” Frank asked.
“No, unfortunately. It’s a bargain though, and there is a certificate inside the package. After you are done with your studying you just print your name on the certificate put it in a frame and hang it in your office to prove that you are a real detective”, Mandy actually failed to see how ridiculous she sounded. She went into a store behind the office, came out with a box which she placed on the table in front of Frank.
“Heck, I can’t read all this,” Frank told her. Mandy shrugged her shoulder.
“In any case for ninety-nine pounds extra you could purchase the entire courses recorded on CDs and listen to be trained as a detective,” she advised.
“That sounds better. Okay, I will just have the CDs then.” Frank happily offered. Mandy firmly shook her head.
“No, the CDs must be bought together with the books, not alone. Don’t be lazy with your studies; it is not easy to become a detective you know.” she playfully scolded.
“That’s a lot of money,” Frank scratched his head thoughtfully.
“Well, the advertisement did say that you could actually earn a hundred quid per hour as a private detective so this is cheap. You get all your money back in four hours.” Mandy shrugged and giggled some more.
The man in the portrait appeared to glare at him with much disapproval. Frank handed his bank card to Mandy for payment. Mandy was glad to pass Frank’s card through a processing machine which dutifully deducted three hundred and forty pounds from his bank account. Mandy cheerfully wrote him a receipt.
“Who is the bloke in the picture? Is that the owner of this business? Out of curiosity, he pointed to the portrait.
“I don’t know; I met him here,” Mandy replied, returning to reading her OK Magazine.
Frank left Eagle Detective Training. He checked his phone again and found that he had another missed call. He called his voicemail; Nancy had left another message. Frank grimaced.
Lugging the parcel home took all the energy out of him. Nevertheless, back at home, he ripped open the seal of one of the boxes. He popped one of the CDs into a portable player. It was topic number two of the detective course and the title from the cover said: Tracing Missing Persons. Frank thought this could be the most interesting part of the entire course. He grimaced at the badly recorded voice of the instructor, who had obviously been reading from the course notes. He sat on the couch to listen nonetheless and was soon lulled to sleep.
When he woke up, it was around six o’clock in the evening. Taking a quick shower, he decided to visit his girlfriend. He took a bus for Stratford Station, and at the station, exit bought a bunch of flowers, and walked up to a nearby block of flats. He took the lift to the second floor and pressed the bell at the second door to the right of the lift, which was where Sade Leigh lived Hers was a two-room job, a room of which she had converted into a garment design studio. Sade was a vivacious Nigerian dressmaker, with a very colorful taste, in clothes. Frank would often wonder what she admired in him since they seemed exactly opposite in almost every way.
“Vegetables again,” Sade groaned, taking the bouquet Frank had brought and putting it in a vase.
“They aren’t vegetables honey, they are the best. They cost me a bunch at the station”. Frank laughed.
“Pity you can’t eat them, which is even worse than paying so much of good money for a bunch of vegetables, Sade playfully nagged.
“Oh, you impossible witch,” Frank contrived an agonized groan.
“Yes, I’m now going to cast a spell on you and make you take me to dinner,” Sade purred.
“Yes, yes o wicked witch, I am under your evil spell. I will take you to dinner.” Frank agreed with her.
A great film was showing that night at the Stratford cinema, and they decided to watch the film first, after which they went to Nando’s; just a stone throw away. Sitting at a feast of flame-grilled chicken and baked potatoes, Frank had more than a bit of update for Sade.
“You mean you were arrested for a bank robbery?” Sade was incredulous.
“Yes, my dear,” I knocked off a high street bank all by myself and the police let me off on good behavior,” Frank told her.
“And before that, you lost your job; so how are you going to survive Frank? Not by weekend party gigs obviously.”
“Not enough to sustain me honey; and I couldn’t certainly afford you by doing weekend party gigs.” he laughed
“So what are your plans, Frank?” Sade sounded genuinely worried for him.
“I was coming to that. Today I bought a detective course. I found that working as a detective isn’t quite different from what I did as a journalist and it certainly looks like you could make a lot more in that business. Do you know that people actually fork out as much as a hundred and fifty pounds an hour to get a private detective?” Frank told her.
“Wow!” Sade sounded full of suspicion. “A hundred pounds an hour? I don’t believe that.”
“Better believe, because it’s true. So I am going to start building myself a new and enduring profession honey”.
“So what are you going to call yourself? What is your...erm.... handle going to be like”?
“Handle? I am not a mug, sister”
“You are a really smart dummy you know; what are you going to call yourself? Under what handle will you be working ...Sam Spade…Colin Fetchit..? What is it going to be like? I personally am not going to employ Frank O’Dwyer to find even a lost cat.”, Sade was sincere.
“Yeah, you’ve got a point there. I was thinking something like Frank Xero”.
“Xero? That sounds awful”
“No, it doesn’t. Like a private investigator zeroes in on a crime and gets it solved real quick; Gerrit?”
“Well, it’s your business, not mine. It still sounds like a photocopy shop to me, like Xerox. Are you sure you aren’t going to get sued by some of these business creeps in black suits?”
“Never worry Sade. On the positive side, it is going to make me easy to remember”.
“No it’s crappy, and I don’t like it” Sade confessed “Try something more sensible like Frank Wire. It is also easy to remember I think. And it sounds rather cool. Like you are the new British werewolf – Frank Wire by day, MC Wire by night”, she giggled.
“Hey what will I do without you, o witch” Frank nipped her ear with his teeth.
“Don’t Snoop Dog me dude; not here” Sade pushed him away. “I think you are forgetting something though. Don’t you need a license for this? “
“Not as far as I know, “Frank told her. He had indeed checked earlier on his computer. Anyone with the wish could become a private detective.
Sade had updates of her own.
“I am happy for you then, and I hope you make a lot of money. I am participating in a fashion exhibition at the Barbican in a couple of weeks. It is an ethnic fashion show; I am so excited about the opportunity, Frank. It would be nice to have my designs break the ethnic barrier though. I am wishing for good contacts at the event”, she told him.
“I love your designs SADE, especially the Dashiki tops. Trevor absolutely loves them too. I hope you are going to have a lot of them on display. Very nice to wear in summer.” Frank encouraged.
“Yes, you both put a lot of business my way. I think it is time for me to break the ethnic barrier and something tells me the Barbican exhibition is going to be it, for me. “, Sade was full of hopes.
“Go for it then, girl. You’ve got awesome talent in that lovely head of yours, and it is time for you to really make it big.” Frank kissed her on the cheek. Sade put her arms around him.
“It’s not only about the money though. I am proud of where I came from, and I would wish to change some unfortunate mindsets along the way. I aim to have elegant girls black and white, modeling exquisite Yoruba fashion as you’ve never seen before. For me, this will not be just another clothing exhibition; I want it to be a major cultural statement.” Sade said.
“I believe you, honey. I am sure one day; you will make a statement that will be heard and remembered all over the world.” Frank said to her.
Together they went to the Sainsbury’s supermarket for a couple of bottles of wine for the night..
CHAPTER 5
There had been more robberies than the bank job as Frank learned from the East End Mirror. A headline read:
CAMCORDER ROBBERS STRIKE AGAIN.
Pretty small-time stuff all the robberies had been but done in the same insanely ridiculous way. A jewelry shop near Eastham got hit; they even did a pizza shop. The thought made Frank chuckle. A pizza shop getting knocked off; certainly looked very desperate to him. Somehow these stories could only be found in the East End Mirror, which Frank still dutifully read every day primarily in the hope that one day, the front page would contain a goodbye message announcing the demise of the newspaper, preferably due to the death of the proprietor, Spencer Cowley. Frank longed to be able to get rid of that dangling piece of his life – to see Spencer Cowley punished as the architect of his current unemployment situation.
But this never happened and the East End Mirror kept on. In any case, as Frank would wonder, East End Mirror was the only paper that reported these robberies, which gave the suspicion that something shady was afoot. Frank wondered whether Fernandez had at last strayed off the straight and narrow. But heck, the East End Mirror really wasn’t his responsibility anymore. He didn’t have a job with the East End Mirror anymore and therefore no business poking his nose into whatever went on there.
His payoff had dwindled very fast with bills knocking on his door daily. He had for a while swallowed his pride and tried a couple of those jobs he had previously rejected at the Jobcentre.
